


this is me trying

by acollectionofdaydreams



Series: 3am Conversations [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Not A Fix-It, but not in s5, idk what to tell you it's just sad, post 4x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:20:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25544278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acollectionofdaydreams/pseuds/acollectionofdaydreams
Summary: Eliot and Margo have a conversation five days after Eliot wakes up in the infirmary.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh
Series: 3am Conversations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704424
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	this is me trying

**Author's Note:**

> i promised myself i'd never write a fic like this, but here we are. you can send all of your complaints to miss taylor alison swift for writing the entire folklore album because this is truly all her fault. it doesn't end happy so like, i understand if this isn't your cup of tea. i just could not rest until i wrote it because it's all i could think of while listening to 'this is me trying' on repeat (:

The penthouse was dark when Eliot stumbled through the kitchen and out to the balcony. He didn’t know exactly what time it was, but it was some ungodly hour of the night, that much he was sure of. 

It’s not like he really slept these days anyway.

He pushed the door to a close behind him quietly, in an attempt to not disturb the others if they were managing to get some rest. It had been at least three days since he’d managed to do that. Three out of five wasn’t bad though, all things considered. Even if the first two days _after_ had been spent in the infirmary in a drug-induced haze.

He’d fallen into a restless nap on the sofa this time, only to awaken when someone upstairs got up to go to the bathroom. It couldn’t have been more than two hours, but really, what did he need his energy for? Moping didn’t require much strength anyways. That’s what Margo had called what he was doing.

He was trying not to be resentful towards her, really, he was. He knew they handled these things differently. Margo needed to rage, rage against the dying of the light. The woman had never met a problem she couldn’t fight her way out of, knuckles bloody, and this one was no exception other than the fact that there was nothing to fight _against_ this time. You could never get angry enough to scare grief into submission, so she was lashing out at anyone and anything she could in order to make up for it, and Eliot could hardly hold it against her. It didn’t mean it was helpful though.

He propped his cane up against the railing of the balcony and halfway fell into a wicker chair, wincing as his gut protested the action. He closed his eyes as he leaned his head back and sighed. Maybe she was right and he should care more about Fillory or the magical surges or whatever other apocalypse was looming on the horizon. They weren’t really the kind of people who got to celebrate their victories before another problem was knocking at the door, historically speaking. Did that mean they couldn’t grieve their losses either though? And if so, were they even human at that point? If they could watch their own personal world end and keep on moving? Eliot didn’t feel very human. He felt more like a zombie, stitched together just well enough to still be alive but with all the important parts scooped out.

Quentin would have had a nerdy comment about that; something like _that’s not how zombies work, Eliot_. He would have grinned as Quentin rambled on and maybe even thrown in a comment or two to antagonize him further. It didn’t matter what Quentin would have said though, did it? Because he wasn’t here to correct Eliot, and he never would be again.

The door creaked open, and Eliot opened one eye to see Margo slipping out onto the balcony. He shut it again when she closed the door behind her and indelicately dropped into the chair next to him.

“Are we being sad outside now?” she asked. “I guess that’s an improvement.”

He replied, “It seemed more romantic than the living room.”

She sighed, and he could hear the impatience in the wordless exhale.

“El,” she said, her voice straining against the steadiness she was forcing into it, “you have to start sleeping. You heard what Lipson said about your wound.”

“I did,” he said.

He’d heard her when she explained that he needed rest, that his energy had been drained by the monster’s possession and the magical nature of the axe. He would be weak for some time until he gained his full life force back since magic was too unreliable to actually fix him, and that natural healing required him to eat and sleep like a normal person, if not more. If only anything was normal these days.

Margo forged on, albeit a bit more gently, “I know this is really hard, but it doesn’t even seem like you’re trying. You know this isn’t what Quentin would want for you.” 

He opened his eyes to look at her as he cut her off, “Don’t… do that.”

She conceded, “I’m not asking you to be happy. I’m just asking you to _try_. The rest of us lost him too, you know, and you don’t see us sitting out here at 3am.”

“Actually, you are out here right now,” he pointed out.

She glared at him halfheartedly as she said, “You know what I mean.”

He did know, but he was a little tired of those particular implications. That other people were dealing and he was the one falling behind here. As if the very fact that he was breathing right now when Quentin wasn’t didn’t feel like a grave injustice of the universe.

“This is me fucking trying, Margo!” he shot back, his voice rising in volume as he finally lost most of his patience with her. “I haven’t drank myself to death yet, and frankly, you of all people should know that that’s progress.”

She gasped, “Eliot!”

He groaned into his hands and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, I…”

He felt her hand come to rest between his shoulder blades, and he allowed some of the tension to bleed from his frame as she dug her fingers in.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” he admitted, muffled through his fingertips. 

She didn’t say anything at first, and he didn’t really expect her to. This was usually the point in the conversation when one of them would snap at the other and walk away. She didn’t leave though, just continued massaging the tense muscles in his back as she leaned sideways into her chair.

Finally, she said, “I don’t either.”

He muttered, “What a pair we are.”

“But, El, you’re scaring me a little,” she said.

He didn’t have it in him to bite back a second time, and frankly, her voice held a vulnerability that caught him a little too off guard to even try. He raised his eyes to meet her gaze and finally took in the downturn of her lips and the red-rimmed look in her eyes. She was clearly exhausted and meant what she said.

He was sort of scaring himself too, if he was honest.

Maybe he did owe it to her, if not to himself, to at least make an effort to stay alive. It’s not like any of them needed to be babysitting him on top of their own grief. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Margo was right about another thing too. Quentin wouldn’t want this for him. He’d want Eliot to find a way to keep going, to have a life and be happy. He’d done it once, after all, when Eliot had been the first to go. It wasn’t anyone else’s fault that Eliot couldn’t want that for himself right now.

“I’ll try to do better,” he promised her, even though the words felt like steel wool scratching his throat on the way out. “I don’t know how that’s gonna go, but I’ll try.”

The relief on her face was practically palpable as she smiled at him. So, he took her hand when she extended it and allowed her to pull him to his feet and hand him his cane.

“We’re gonna start by sleeping in a real bed,” she told him firmly. “I enchanted mine with memory foam, so it’s way more comfortable than that couch.”

He managed a small smile in response as she squeezed his hand and led him inside. He knew that the world wouldn't feel like it was ending any less from inside Margo’s bedroom, but maybe it was a first step. At least he was trying.


End file.
